


Demons Run

by TeachUsSomethingPlease



Series: The Lightning in the Vortex [2]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Because the Hat is Depressed now, Because they have a really sick sense of humor and I appreciate it in terror, Canon-Typical Violence, Coincides with:, Death, Does it count if you're being chased by eldritch horrors?, Episode: s07e05 The Angels Take Manhattan, Everybody Dies, Gen, Giving Up, Gratuitous use of pronouns in a specifically vague manner, Heavy Angst, I want to know who made those, So APPARENTLY while looking something up I found out there are weeping angel night lights, Sort Of, Sort of? - Freeform, Suicidal Thoughts, The Author Regrets Everything, This is why there will be no Angels in the main fic, Timeframe isn't pinned down but it's some stage between second and sixth year, Why would I write this?!, trigger warning: suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:00:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27705923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeachUsSomethingPlease/pseuds/TeachUsSomethingPlease
Summary: It has been three days since the Angels stopped feeding and started killing, and Harry is tired.A (completely angsty, completely on the other side in terms of mood) companion toGlasses are Coolthat is no way canonical to the fic. An explanation of why I have decided to refuse to add Weeping Angels into the fic, even though they're an iconic villain, if you will.Trigger Warning: Suicidal Thoughts (Literally Harry's ruminations on the death), Off-Screen Suicide and Death.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Original Character(s), Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter, The Doctor (Doctor Who) & Harry Potter
Series: The Lightning in the Vortex [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026301
Kudos: 10





	Demons Run

**Author's Note:**

> This is Angst with literally nothing to back it up, set somewhere between 2nd and 6th year and coinciding with _The Angels take Manhattan_.   
> **Trigger Warning: Suicide and Related Thoughts.**  
>  I don't know WHY I wrote this, I just wanted a perspective on what would happen if the Angels attacked Hogwarts and this is just further proof I'm not actually in control of where the story goes. Note if you aren't familiar with _Glasses is Cool_ you might not be able to pick up on the people at the very end, so they're in the tags as "Mentioned".

Drips of water fall like tears onto cold grey stone as hurried footsteps echo down the empty corridor. There’s a soft splashing is a foot falls into a puddle, just deep enough to ripple at the intrusion. It has been weeks, now, since the sound of laughter filled these halls, since the chatter of voices and sound of bells floated across the grounds, green as they are in the seeds of Scottish springtime. This place was built for the children, for the curious minds and the bubbling joy of magic, ethereal and bright and free. Once, there were four pillars of colour here, and they held up a sky filled with stars.

No more.

Now the pillars crumble into one, and the roof threatens to cave in on them, or else vanish, its strength a mere illusion. The spirit of the castle is gone, and with it the vain thought of protection. Now the voices that used to call out in innocence crack instead with the pressure of fear, as jewels and glass spill broken on the floor, the numbers on their counters dwindling as do the number of the castle’s inhabitants. Every day they go out, and every day fewer and fewer return.

Don’t blink, he remembers, ghosts of bitterness floating through his mind, but what to do when even that is an impossibility? What to do when you have to blink, what to do when you have the choice between a quick end and a slow one?

The note he penned at the beginning of this nightmare lies hidden in an alcove and maybe, maybe one day it will be read, but not as it was intended to be. He understands that, now. At first, he refused to believe, smashed glass and ink against stony walls, sobbed and yelled and begged. Why? Why did it have to be like this? Why is this how they’re going to go out? Why couldn’t they protect him, they promised, they PROMISED!

The anger is gone, and with it the pain, the sorrow, the ache. He regrets, now, that he will never touch them again, never laugh with them, never be held in their arms. It is not the fate he wanted, but it is the fate he has been dealt, and he accepts it even as it burns up inside him. One day, maybe, they will learn what became of him, and they will feel the same. They will forgive him, he hopes, for not fighting harder, for not escaping like they always do. Perhaps, in another world, he would run, and keep running, and live to run another day, but this is not it. His legacy, it seems, is to die.

It has been three days since the bodies ceased to go missing. Three days since they found the first one, a little Slytherin girl, laying on the ground in a broken parody of sleep, eyes so vibrant hazel in life cloudy beneath closed lids, neck snapped cleanly. Three days since her voice returned to the air, high and musical and sweet. She stopped speaking in her final days, fearful and timid, and it makes the mocking speech all the more painful. He thought, an eternity ago, as they laid her to rest as best as they could, that life was cruel.

Now, he knows, it is not cruelty, not some sick, twisted game. They were blessed with the ability to make light dance to their tune, to hold death in their hands, to bend the world to their desires. It was inevitable, in the end, that they should pay for it, just as the races of old paid for their own, over and over again in a cosmic cycle of loss. They could run – and how they ran – but in the end, they would have to stop, to stagger, to fall to the ground. And then, as they lay, they would be caught. It is impossible to escape some things, and in the end, it was only mathematics, was it not?

They do not pain him anymore, the empty spaces that used to pulse in time with the heartbeats of those he knew. Echo, surely, and the hollow feeling twists within him, squirming into his mind unwelcome and unbidden, but the ache is gone. He no longer thinks of red hair framing clear blue eyes and hurts, he no longer sees big brown eyes and clouds of hair in his mind’s eye and weeps. They, at least, will have a kinder end. They are dead, gone, and they were when he first laid eyes on them, but at least their spectres do not haunt him, at least he can be safe in knowing he will never hear them again, not like the little Slytherin girl.

What was her name – Iolanthe, Iolanthe Lestrange. Daughter of a death eater, born at the close of summertime, raised as a purist, her small nose perpetually turned up in disgust. Green and silver trimmings, emeralds in a glass jar, hair like the magic her ancestors practiced. He watched, from a distance, as practiced joy turned to confusion turned to terror. She was a girl raised for cruelty and hate, and…

And she was a girl, _just_ a girl, no woman or warrior, and she didn’t deserve to die.

There is a presence behind him, he notes with no small irony, and he remembers the old story, of broken faith and haunted corridors, and he smiles. He does not cry – it has been a week since his tears dried out, and even now, they will not come back. He was, in the end, made for this. It was always going to go this way, from the moment he was scarred, from the moment his robes changed, their edges newly trimmed with shimmering gold and bloody red, and his lips twitch into a smile even as he turns, breath catching as he does so.

Their eyes are empty, he notes with no small interest. His own have always been the first thing people remark upon, vibrant green, too much so to be real, even. He wonders, briefly, what they must look like now, behind round glasses as if framed, dark pupils surely wide with fear even as he stands there, smiling, smiling. He always thought he’d go out in a blaze of magic and wonder, always wanted to go out in peace, always hoped he would never have to hurt anyone left behind, not more than he needed to, anyway. And yet he stands, waiting, with his feet in the remains of what was once a long-dead girl’s final act, not even bothering to draw his wand – he isn’t even carrying it, anymore, not when he knows it’s futile.

He is one less mouth to feed, one less figure to worry about. Maybe, just maybe, he has enough potential to sate them – no, they are here for fun, now. Maybe… maybe, without him keeping them alive, it won’t be so drawn out for them. Maybe they can finally have a quick end.

He’s sorry. He’s so, so, sorry.

* * *

Blinks come in unison, and far away, a man screams.

* * *

They will never know, he thinks, as he holds her tight to him, as they take solace in each other’s very presence. They will never know, the four of them ripped away in a second and a lifetime, and it better this way, better that they never understand that his fate was worse than theirs.

I gave up, the childish voice rings, derisive in his memories. I gave up, and you never came.

Their number is down to two. Second chance stands lost, and time incarnate cries.


End file.
